shepherds never drove their flocks, nor the mountain goats resorted,
nor any of the beasts of the forest; neither was it defaced with
fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh around it, and the
rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came one day the youth
fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He stooped down to drink,
and saw his own image in the water; he thought it was some beautiful
water-spirit living in the fountain. He stood gazing with admiration
at those bright eyes, those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or
Apollo, the rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the
glow of health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself.
He brought his lips near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to
embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned again
after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not tear himself
away; he lost all thought of food or rest, while he hovered over the
brink of the fountain gazing upon his own image. He talked with the
supposed spirit: "Why, beautiful being, do you shun me? Surely, my
face is not one to repel you. The nymphs love me, and you yourself
look not indifferent upon me. When I stretch forth my arms you do the
same; and you smile upon me and answer my beckonings with the like."
His tears fell into the water and disturbed the image. As he saw it
depart, he exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you! Let me at least gaze upon
you, if I may not touch you." With this, and much more of the same
kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by degrees he
lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which formerly had so
charmed the nymph Echo. She kept near him, however, and when he
exclaimed, "Alas, alas!" she answered him with the same words. He
pined away and died; and when his shade passed the Stygian river, it
leaned over the boat to catch a look of itself in the waters. The
nymphs mourned for him, especially the water-nymphs; and when they
smote their breasts, Echo smote hers also. They prepared a funeral
pile, and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found;
but in its place a flower, purple within, and surrounded with white
leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.
Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the Lady's song
in "Comus." She is seeking her brothers in the forest, and sings to
attract their attention:
"Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy aëry shell
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
O, if thou have
Hid them in some flowery cave,
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies."
Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which he
makes Eve give of the first sight of herself reflected in the
fountain:--
"That day I oft remember when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
Bending to look on me. I started back;
It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest,
What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself;'" &c.
"Paradise Lost," Book IV.
No one of the fables of antiquity has been oftener alluded to by the
poets than that of Narcissus. Here are two epigrams which treat it in
different ways. The first is by Goldsmith:--
"ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING"
"Sure 'twas by Providence designed,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be like Cupid blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate."
The other is by Cowper:--
"ON AN UGLY FELLOW"
"Beware, my friend, of crystal brook
Or fountain, lest that hideous hook,
Thy nose, thou chance to see;
Narcissus' fate would then be thine,
And self-detested thou would'st pine,
As self-enamored he."
THE RING OF POLYCRATES
BY M. M. BIRD
"Then, would'st thou keep thy happy place,
Beseech the Immortals of their grace
Some bitter with their sweet to blend;
For when the gods on any pour
Of happiness an unmixed store,
Ruin full sure will be his end."--SCHILLER.
Of all earth's monarchs, the lordliest and the proudest was
Polycrates, Tyrant of Samos. Whatever he set his hand to had
prospered. One by one he had conquered all the isles of Greece, and
never had his galleys by sea or his archers on land known defeat.
Alone to be compared with him in power was his friend and ally,
Amasis, King of Egypt, by whose side he had warred and shared the
spoils of victory.
This Polycrates, in his palace on Samos, gazing out across the shining
sea and meditating what new venture should occupy his arms, saw one
day a single galley speeding swiftly from the south. It bore the
cognizance of the King of Egypt, the watchmen said.
"What message can our good brother Amasis have for us?" mused the
King. "For what new exploit does he demand our aid, what deed does he
not dare to venture till he league our charmed fortune with his own?"
The galley flew over the waters; it glided round the outflung arm of
the mole, and reached the quay. Messengers bore in haste to the
palace a missive sealed with the great seal of Amasis.
Polycrates searched the hieroglyphics in vain for some bold scheme,
his share in which shall be more slaves, more land, more gold, more
power, and more hate from those he conquers.
For this is what Amasis wrote to his ally:
"It is pleasant to hear of the success of a friend and ally. But thy
excessive good fortune doth not please me, knowing as I do that the
divinity is jealous. As for me, I would rather choose that both I and
my friends should be partly successful in our undertakings, and partly
suffer reverses; and so pass life meeting with vicissitudes of fortune
than be prosperous in all things. For I cannot remember that I ever
heard of any man who, having suffered no reverse, did not at last
utterly perish. Be advised therefore by me, and act thus with regard
to thy good fortune. Consider well what thou valuest most, and the
loss of which would most pain thy soul; this treasure so cast away
that it may never more be seen of man."
Polycrates put down the letter and meditated. He looked round the
gorgeous hall wherein he sat, he looked out of the window at the
marble terraces, the vines and fruit trees of his palace gardens.
Below he saw the crowded streets of his busy town, his quays where
ships unloaded their merchandise for his pleasure. There was the
harbor where his galleys lay, a hundred of them, each manned by fifty
strong oarsmen, slaves. Beyond the great mole that captives of war had
built for him lay the crowded islands of the Grecian seas, and they
too were his vassals or allies. His power knew no check; the stream of
gold flowed unbroken to his shores. He owned to himself with mingled
pride and alarm that such prosperity was a thing to provoke the
jealous envy of the immortals.
Amasis had seen this danger, and had sent a kindly warning to his
friend. It was well done.
What loss would he most mourn?
Tyrant as he was, Polycrates was a patron of the arts. It was at his
court that Anacreon sung of wine and love as none had sung before.
Painters and sculptors and musicians were entertained there, and he
delighted in their arts. Should he sacrifice his favorite singer, his
most gifted painter? Should he obliterate the world-famous fresco of
his banquet hall, or slay the most beautiful of his slaves? But a new
singer would soon replace the old, another artist would arise and
would paint a more enchanting scene, a lovelier slave would fall
captive to his arms.
He despaired of selecting among his countless treasures what was most
precious, when his eye fell on the great gold signet on his
fore-finger. There was the symbol of his power itself, the splendid
gold ring, carved by Theodorus, son of Telecles the Samian. There was
the emerald engraved by Theodorus with his signet device. The impress
of that signet on the pliant wax set the seal of the King's command on
every order. His eyes dwelt on the beautiful ring; he turned it on his
finger, he marked the cunning work of it, the elegant design. The gold
glittered in the sunlight, the heart of the great emerald glowed with
green fire.
"This ring," he cried, "my dearest treasure, my most valued
possession, I will cast into the sea!"
His ministers and courtiers heard him astonished. They spoke among
themselves with bated breath of the thing the King proposed to do.
How could the business of the realm go on without the King's
recognized seal to set upon his ordinances? The news spread through
the palace, where astonishment was mingled with consternation, and
consternation with admiration of the King who would sacrifice so great
a treasure to propitiate the gods for the good of his realm. From the
palace the news spread to the town, and men gathered in knots to
discuss it, and women ran from house to house to tell and hear it.
Then they saw the royal barge of fifty oars being swiftly prepared for
sea. The crowds of workers left their toil in the workshops of the
town and clustered on the quay. They looked and saw the King coming in
procession from the palace, his ministers about him, his courtiers
following after. A frown was on his brow and a fierce resolve in his
eyes. And as he passed along the gangway they marked that his royal
hand was bare; no green fire shone from it like a glow-worm at night.
Out, far out into the sea the rowers drove the swift galley; the water
boiled beneath the keel, and fled hissing from the stroke of those
fifty oars. At last the silent King made a sign, and the oars flashed
out of the water, scattering a silver fountain of spray.
Thrice the King raised his arm in act to throw, and thrice as he eyed
the priceless gem he clutched it in his open palm. But the fourth time
he closed his dazzled eyes and flung it far from him. And the great
emerald, as it fell into the main, flashed like a streamer in the
northern sky.
No sign that the gods accepted his sacrifice followed the deed. The
sun shone bright overhead, and below was the innumerable laughter of
the waves.
The King made a sign with the hand, now so significantly bare, and the
galley sped back to the quay. And all the days that followed there was
mourning in the palace, the King was wrapped in gloom, the business of
the state seemed to have been brought to a standstill.
On the sixth day a humble fisherman climbed to the palace gates,
bearing as a gift a royal sturgeon. "Accept, O King," he cried, "an
offering worthy of thee. For three-score years have I plied my humble
trade, yet never before have my nets brought to land so goodly a
fish."
Polycrates thanked the fisherman and bestowed on him a purse of gold,
and the fish he ordered to be served for that night's banquet.
The King was in his chamber, deep in state affairs, when a scullion
came running demanding instant audience. In his hand was a jewel that
flashed and glowed.
Polycrates stared in amazement, and then stretched forth his hand to
seize the ring that had been miraculously restored. For when the
fisherman's gift had been cut open the ring had been found in its
belly.
The courtiers whispered together in fear: "What can this mean? Have
the jealous gods rejected the sacrifice?"
But Polycrates was beside himself with joy. He wrote in haste to
Amasis, King of Egypt, to tell him what had befallen. "Such good
fortune as mine," he declared, "is unassailable by gods or men."
But Amasis was of a different opinion. He felt that no power could
avail to save a man so unnaturally fortunate from the vengeance of the
jealous gods. He sent his herald to say that he renounced the
friendship between them lest, said he, if some dreadful and great
calamity befell Polycrates he might himself be involved in it!
Black anger at this desertion filled the heart of Polycrates. He heard
that Cambyses, son of Cyrus, King of Persia, was on the point of
invading Egypt with a great army, so he offered him help by sea.
Cambyses gladly accepted this alliance, and Polycrates despatched
forty ships of war.
But in his heaven-sent blindness he manned them with malcontents and
men of conquered nations whom he suspected of disloyalty and wished to
remove--sending with them secretly a message to Cambyses that he did
not wish a man of them to return.
These warriors mutinied before they reached the battle ground, and
returned in war array against Samos, but they, too, failed and
Polycrates became more powerful than ever. And then it was that
Oroetes, the Persian satrap of Sardis, who had conceived a hatred of
Polycrates, enticed the fortunate tyrant to visit him and seized upon
him treacherously and crucified him, so that men might see how the
jealous gods will not suffer a mortal to share immortal bliss, and
that soon or late pride has a fall.
ROMULUS AND REMUS
BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD
Every one has heard tell of Rome, that great city, already ancient
when Cæsar found on the shores of Britain woad-painted savages living
in a swamp where now stands the mightiest city in the world. The story
of Romulus and Remus tells of the founding of this ancient city, and
how it took its name from its first king.
Older even than Rome was a town built on a hill not far away by Iulus,
son of Æneas, of whose wanderings you have heard, and called Alba
Longa, the Long White City.
When my story begins it was ruled by King Amulius. He had no right to
the throne, but he had seized it by force from his elder brother,
Numitor, who was a peace-abiding man, and no match for his ambitious
brother.
Amulius had nothing to fear from the gentle Numitor, who abode with
his flocks and herds, but his guilty conscience would not let him
rest, and he lived in terror lest one day the children of Numitor
should avenge their father's wrongs and take the throne that was
theirs by right of inheritance.
So he hired assassins to kill the boy, and the girl, Sylvia, he doomed
to be a vestal virgin. These were maidens vowed to remain single all
their lives, and to watch the ever-burning fire in the shrine of the
goddess Vesta; this could only be kept alive by spotless virgins, and
on its life depended the safety of the city--of Alba first, and
afterwards of Rome.
But the god Mars, whom all Romans worship as the leader of their hosts
and the founder of their race, looked with pity on the maid, and
willed not that the seed of Numitor should perish. So he visited her
as she lay asleep in the temple of Vesta, and he sent her a wonderful
dream.
She dreamt that as she sat and watched the sacred fire, she dozed, and
the fillet slipped from her brow, and from the fillet there sprang two
palm trees that grew and spread till their tops reached the heavens,
and their branches overspread all the earth. Seven times did she dream
the same dream, and she knew at last that it was a message of the god.
And lo, in due time there were born to her twin sons of more than
mortal beauty.
When Amulius heard of the birth of these twins his wrath was kindled.
He commanded that Sylvia should forthwith be buried alive, for that is
the punishment appointed for virgins unfaithful to their vows; and
himself seizing the wicker cradle in which the babes lay asleep, he
flung it into the yellow Tiber.
But Mars was mindful of his own. The mother, Sylvia, was nowhere to be
found, for the god had spirited her away in safety, and the helpless
babes, still sleeping quietly, floated upon the turbid waters as
though their cradle had been a boat, while Father Tiber quelled his
raging flood to let them pass unharmed.
On drifted the frail bark down the river till it came to where, at the
foot of a hill, stood a great wild fig tree, its gnarled roots laid
bare by the wash of the flood. The floating cradle was driven against
the roots of this tree and held fast there, for the water had reached
its highest level and was beginning now to ebb.
Through all the roaring of the raging river the babes had slept, but
now, with a start, they awoke and looked up, expecting to see their
mother bending over them and ready to take them to her breast. But
over their heads they saw only a glimmer of twilight through the
branches of the fig tree, and there was no sound save the sough of the
wind and the lapping of the waters, and now and again the distant howl
of a wolf seeking its evening meal. Cold and hungry, they cried
piteously. Presently, through the gathering darkness, two green eyes
stared down at them. It was a great gray she-wolf, and the hungry
babes hushed their cry and gazed in wonder at those lamps of fire.
The wolf sniffed all round the cradle; then she pushed it with her
forepaws till it fell right over on its side and the two infants
rolled out of it. She licked them gently with her rough tongue, and
they cuddled to her warm flanks and clutched instinctively with their
tiny fingers at her shaggy fell. She dragged them gently up the
hillside, away from the water, to a mossy cavern where she had her
lair, and there she gave them milk as though they had been her own
cubs, and nestling close against her the babes fell asleep.
It chanced that Faustulus, the chief herdsman of King Amulius, went
forth one morning to see if the floods were abated and the pastures
once more clear. As he wandered along at the foot of the Palatine hill
he saw a cradle lying on its side beneath a fig tree. He went towards
it, and as he neared the place his eye was caught by something moving
within the dark shadow of an overhanging rock. He bent his steps to
the cave to see what might be within it, when on a sudden a she-wolf
sprang out and away among the bushes before he could aim a dart at
her; and, to his amazement, a green woodpecker, with a piece of bread
in its beak, came fluttering forth from the hollow. Both wolf and
woodpecker, you must know, are special servants of Mars, and these
were doing his pleasure and tending the helpless infants.
Faustulus came to the cave and stooped to look in. There, scrambling
over one another on a soft bed of moss and fern, were two beautiful
boys; and he marveled greatly, and said to himself: "These babes were
not born of common mortals, but of one of the immortal gods. A naiad,
or haply a river-god, must have interposed to save them from the
flood, and to feed them with ambrosia, the food of the gods."
So he took them home to his wife Laurentia, and told her the tale. And
when she saw their innocent faces her motherly heart was stirred with
love and pity, and she tended them as though they had been her own
sons, and called them Romulus and Remus.
The boys grew up brave and strong. When they were old enough they
helped the herdsmen of King Amulius; and, because they were ever
foremost where there was danger, all the other lads came to look up to
them as leaders. It was a life that pleased the twins well. All day
they wandered on the slopes of the hills, guarding the grazing cattle
from wild beasts or robbers, and at night all the herdsmen would join
together and make a camp in some sheltered valley or beneath spreading
trees on the mountain side. And here they would build great fires to
keep off the wolves, and would lie beside them, singing songs or
telling tales to one another.
Sometimes the herdsmen of King Amulius had desperate fights with
other herdsmen over good camping-grounds, or fertile pastures, or safe
watering-places, or over the ownership of strayed cattle. More
especially were their quarrels fierce and frequent with the herdsmen
of Numitor, whose grazing-grounds marched with those of King Amulius.
Sometimes, after these fights, the herdsmen of Numitor would complain
to their master of the two tall striplings who constantly led the
herdsmen of Amulius to victory.
At length, one day they laid an ambush and caught Remus, and bore him
away to Numitor. As soon as the deposed king saw the lad he was
reminded of the face of his long-lost daughter Sylvia, and he eagerly
desired to see Romulus also.
Faustulus and his foster-son were wondering what could have befallen
Remus, and were preparing to set out in search of him, when they saw a
band of youths approaching, with olive boughs in their hands, in token
that they came on a peaceful errand.
"Wherefore come you hither, friends?" asked Romulus.
The leader of the band made answer: "Our master, Numitor, has sent us,
Romulus, to pray thee to hasten to his presence."
"Nay," answered Romulus, "I cannot go with you, for I must seek my
brother Remus, who is lost."
Then said the herdsman: "Fear not for thy brother. He is already with
our master Numitor."
Then Faustulus, who long ago had guessed who the boys must be, said to
Romulus: "Do thou the bidding of Numitor, and go with these youths. I
myself will go with thee, and will tell thee on the way certain
matters that it much imports thee to know."
So on the way to the hall of Numitor, Faustulus told Romulus all the
tale of the wicker cradle caught beneath the fig tree, and of the wolf
and woodpecker that had tended the helpless babes.
When the herd-lads saw Romulus pass by they followed him, armed with
staves and slings, to see that no harm should come to him; for they
loved him and his brother well, and counted them their leaders.
As soon as Numitor saw the two lads together and heard the tale of
their finding, he was sure that they must be the children of his
daughter Sylvia.
And Romulus and Remus, when they knew of the evil deeds of their
great-uncle Amulius, determined to take vengeance on him.
All the herdsmen were ready to follow wherever the twins might choose
to lead, so they set forth at once for the hall of King Amulius, and
they overpowered his bodyguard and slew him, and made Numitor king in
his stead.
King Numitor was no ungrateful monarch, and he assigned to his
grandsons, while yet alive, all the lands beside the Tiber, and here
the brothers determined to build a city and to found a kingdom.
And now there came a sharp division between Romulus and Remus. They
were of like age, strength, and courage, and of a like high spirit
that ill brooked any kind of control. Both wanted to rule, neither was
willing to obey; each of the twins was ambitious to be king in the new
city, and to call it after his own name.
[Illustration: ROMULUS AND REMUS]
Then said their grandfather, King Numitor: "Strive not together over
this thing, but let the all-seeing gods decide. Go up, either of you,
to the top of one of these mountains, and look abroad upon the earth
and sky, and the gods shall send a sign whereby ye may know who is
chosen king."
So Romulus and Remus went each to the top of one of the hills by the
Tiber, and they looked abroad upon the earth and sky, all fair and
bright in the sunny April weather.
Remus first came back to his grandfather, and he was flushed with
triumph.
"Victory!" he cried. "The gods have chosen me as king, for I have seen
six vultures flying in the sky."
"Wait," said King Numitor; "do nothing rashly; let us hear what thy
brother hath seen."
As he spoke Romulus strode into the hall and bowed before his
grandfather.
"Speak," said King Numitor. "What hast thou seen from thy
mountain-top?"
And Romulus made answer: "I looked abroad upon the earth, and saw no
living thing; but when I gazed upwards, lo, I saw twelve vultures
flying in the sky."
Then said Numitor: "Verily the gods have spoken plainly; here can be
no mistaking. Hail, King Romulus! Thy brother saw but six vultures."
And all the herdsmen cried with a great shout: "Hail, King Romulus!"
But Remus muttered darkly: "I saw mine first, and I should be the
king." But no man heeded him.
Then Romulus took a plow with a brazen share and yoked to it a bullock
and a heifer, and plowed a deep furrow round the Palatine hill; and
all the herdsmen followed after, turning the earth that the share
displaced all to the side of the furrow where the city was to stand,
so that good fortune might ever follow it and wealth be stored within
its walls. But where the gates were to stand, the plow was lifted and
carried a little space, for that was the custom of those days, that
the gates might not be holy, but that all men might pass through.